Wednesday, April 27, 2011

Every Easter at church I see small girls dressed in brightly colored dresses with matching Easter bonnets. Sometimes, their moms also have on an equally colorful dress and hat. Not as much as in the past though. Few of us 'dress up' to go to church anymore, unless we are attending a wedding or a funeral.

In the past, dressing up for church wasn't just a way of showing off fashions (although for some it was), it was a way to recognize the 'specialness' of the occasion.

Theologians would tell us God is much more interested in our souls than our dress. In fact, many churches insist on casual dress so worshipers won't feel intimidated by the fancy clothes of others and stay home.

Years ago, in communities where everyone was struggling economically (are we back to that yet?) I suppose this wasn't as big a deal. Men and boys had the one good suit... and women had a few good dresses (sometimes homemade).

For African Americans, Sunday service was a chance to throw off the economic shackles of the workweek. Parishioners, who daily languished in uniforms, or as maids and janitors, were glad to have the opportunity to 'dress up.'

One of my early hats. Circa 1960.

For Black women, at Bethel A.M.E. ,the South Los Angeles church I attended for years, hats were the norm at Sunday services. Everyone could wear a hat, but not every woman could 'don' a hat (takes attitude). I can don a hat, and I miss it... even though it has absolutely nothing to do with serving the Lord. I seldom see hats now at my suburban church.

Still, I have a closet full of church hats. I even named some of them -- there's the 'Queen Latifah'... the 'Pixie'... and the black-straw, wide-brimmed, 'Drop Dead!' I wrapped and stored them carefully, hoping that someday here in America we will be like the Ladies of London who wear hats regularly. (Can't wait to see the hats at the Royal wedding!)

I remember a Sunday morning in Jamaica years ago. In the twenty mile ride from the resort to the airport, I witnessed Jamaicans walking to church. The men had on well-worn suits, the young boys had on white shirts and slacks, the girls had on white blouses with skirts, and most of the women wore white dresses and hats. Along the coastal route, I also saw a mass baptism taking place in the sea. People were lined up on shore awaiting their turn. They were clothed in white sheets. It all seemed very holy and pure.

Dressing up for church seems to have gone the way of family gatherings on Sundays. I admit, many times I wear jeans to church... however, one day I'm going to unpack one of my church hats and don it.

Thursday, April 7, 2011

"I'm the only one left. They're all gone."
An elderly relative is telling me of the recent death of her 91-year-old sister. I listen as she fondly describes growing up with four siblings and the emptiness she feels now that they aren't around anymore.

I am confused because I only knew her to have three siblings. "Oh no," she says. "There were five of us -- I had a baby brother who died when he was a toddler." She tearfully recounted, "I remember playing with him and how devastated we were when he got sick and passed away." I can tell the hurt is still strong for her some 80 years later. That is the nature of losing a sibling.

Some siblings are lost through death, others to squabbles and disagreements. Sometimes it's minor, and sometimes it's major, although it seems to me that when you're standing over a sibling's grave, most conflicts will pale in comparison.

Many times, money is the culprit in family disagreements, especially when it comes to inheritances. In my own family, I saw my mom's two older brothers fall out and stop speaking to each other. They were each in their late 60s when the dispute began. It was over an insurance policy that had probably been cashed out 40 years before and had little cash value.

The brothers went to their graves without speaking -- each living over 10 years with no contact. The one who outlived the other did go to his brother's funeral. At the grave he was heard saying, "All he had to do was pick up the phone and call me." At that point it was too late.

Unfortunately, sibling rivalries and disappointments can last a lifetime.

I also remember a beloved aunt who severed ties with her family. She was the eldest of the seven kids, and we all called her "Sister." Sister was sort of the rebel of the family, and from what I heard, she kept tongues wagging most of her life. She lived where she wanted to live, dated whom she wanted to date, and had a hair-trigger temper. I remember her as my most "fun" relative.

Sister left her native Texas in the '40s and moved to San Francisco, which she loved. I live in "the City," she would say in a condescending way to her siblings who had settled across the bay in Oakland. On weekends, Sister and I would traverse the town enjoying all San Francisco had to offer: the Fillmore District, Castro, the Wharf, Nob Hill, Cable Cars, the tour boat to Alcatraz, Chinatown, and Candlestick Park to see Willie Mays! She loved the city and passed that on to me. Also, she taught me to drink foreign teas! We would have tea parties where she would serve using her "good china."

Sister had a dark side, which I saw more of as I got older. Today, we would probably diagnose her with some mental illness and say, "Oh well, Sister forgot to take her meds." However, in those days, whenever she would go into one of her rants, they just said, "Well, you know Sister is crazy!"

Years later, when she was near 80, Sister decided that she was done with her family and moved to Nevada. She left no forwarding address. I remember one of my last conversations with her when she told me that as far as she was concerned, she had no family. "Everybody needs family, Sister," I chided her. "Not me," she said. She had just received a sizable inheritance and took off to spend her remaining days at the slot machines. We never heard from her again.

A couple of years after she left, one of my uncles went to Nevada to try to track her down. He had heard that she was in the Reno area and had gotten into an altercation with someone and pulled a gun. Apparently, the police were involved, and she was institutionalized and died a few months later. Thankfully, no one was hurt. But, I have to admit, this is the way we thought she would go out.

I've thought of still trying to find her, or at least where she is buried. I'm sure there was a police report on her in Nevada (probably one of many). But she's gone -- has been for over 20 years. I've since lost all my other aunts and uncles -- her siblings.

My mom is the only one still alive of the seven kids. Every now and then, I hear her say tearfully, "I'm the only one left. They're all gone.."

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Frankie Beverly and Maze

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Remembering Black L.A.

There is a dearth of historical stories on black life in Southern California. Those that do exist focus on entertainment, crime, or sports. But looking back, one might wonder -- what was every day life like for black Angelenos thirty or forty years ago? Where, and how, did they live, work, and play?

There have always been more stories written for and about the communities west and north of downtown. South and East L.A. stories are mostly crime-related or reports of 'just how bad it is' for African-Americans and Latinos in Southern California. It was the same when I grew up in the period following the Watts riot. Then, as now, crime, poverty, unemployment, educational inadequacies, and racial tensions, formed the nucleus of the stories on Black L.A.

However, as a black girl coming of age in what was then called South-Central Los Angeles, I remember lives that weren't defined by what the media wrote about us. We had a distinct culture that differed from blacks in other metropolises. And -- we had fun, we fell in love, and we enjoyed all that Southern California had to offer! Where are those stories?

Given, nostalgia tends to 'rewrite the hands of time' with a positive slant. However, I do remember cohesive, family-centered, black Los Angeles communities before the crack epidemic of the 1980s decimated so many neighborhoods. I'm speaking of parents who worked hard, raised their children, and held on to that same middle-class dream that fueled families from Pacoima to Pasadena. Where are those stories?

Do we want to go back to those times? Probably not. There was segregation and limited opportunities for blacks. Oh wait -- this still exists! Nevertheless, the stories must be told - the good and bad. Perhaps in looking at our history we can find nuggets of wisdom on how to get through today's hard times.

Then, as now, we kept living... kept going... and within the stories of being black in 'back-in-the-day' L.A., there are references that only those that lived it would understand; although, others might find them enlightening, such as: what black teens used to do with white index cards; why our parents traveled across town to shop at FEDCO; how the Red Onion and the Speakeasy became popular spots on Friday nights for black professionals; when 'the Jungle' was the place to live; bid-whist games and barbeques at Centinela Park; the black high school students who traveled to Hollywood to dance on Soul Train each week; meeting up at Fatburgers after the Saturday night parties; and much, much more. Where are those stories?